


i'm not passive but aggressive (take notes, it's not impressive)

by wastelandzbaby



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Bisexual Jerome Valeska, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Crushes, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s01e16 The Blind Fortune Teller, Gay Jeremiah Valeska, Gender Roles, Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's Complicated TM, Jeremiah Valeska is the Joker, Jerome Valeska Lives, Jerome Valeska is the Joker, No Incest, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Physical Abuse, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Pre-Canon, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Slurs, Slut Shaming, Twin Jokers AU, from season 4 onwards, it's brief and never directly said but. yeah. jerome was a creepy kid skkskskskskssk, it's off-screen but VERY implied, jeremiah's a little gnc, jerome picks up on vocab he hears and not all of it is good, the emotional shit isn't really mentioned too much in the 1st chapter, they're cuties really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 22:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandzbaby/pseuds/wastelandzbaby
Summary: The twins are identical only when they cry, as they both sob and choke and sniffle and beg the same way, but otherwise, there's barely a family resemblance - the same face twisted in opposite directions, Jeremiah soft and sympathetic, Jerome harsh and cruel.





	1. a horse and a man, above, below

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from the song "the kids aren't alright" by fall out boy.  
> chapter title from doctor who 5x02, "the beast below".
> 
> basically, i remembered how much i love the valeska bros, and how much of a waste getting rid of their dynamic was - so here's a not-too-wholesome AU for my fellow twin enthusiasts.  
> i've never experienced child abuse so feel free to tell me if you feel like my portrayal of it is insensitive or too forgiving of the abusers.  
> i'm mlm, so please don't hate me for including some mild homophobia in here - it seemed fitting to their family's track record of hatred.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: child abuse (physical, implied emotional), mild animal abuse/death (only in first scene), homophobic slurs (f*g), kinda-slut shaming.

To be perfect is something Jerome can never grasp.

It comes easily to Jeremiah - his soft smile, his shy gaze, his steady, intelligent tone - and Jerome finds himself resentful because of it.

The twins are identical only when they cry, as they both sob and choke and sniffle and beg the same way, but otherwise, there's barely a family resemblance - the same face twisted in opposite directions, Jeremiah soft and sympathetic, Jerome harsh and cruel.

Jeremiah stains his hands black and blue with pen ink, scrawling maps and labyrinths and equations on loose receipts and dropped tickets - and pauses, and glances over his shoulder, and watches Jerome stain his hands red in less clinical ways.

"Mother will be mad," he warns, and Jerome only laughs in response - harsh and shrill and forced, no humour at all behind it - and grabs the mangled stray by the back of its neck, swinging it out of the door.

"Mother's always mad with me," he says plainly, "so what does it matter?"

He doesn't wipe the blood off his palms before he ruffles his brother's hair. He doesn't wipe it off before he prods at his plans, either.

* * *

The visitors to the circus are none the wiser when it comes to the Valeska household and its issues.

Jeremiah's eagerness to please is seen as a _charming character trait,_ an extra bit of cuteness to his otherwise plain personality. His quiet voice and shaky hands are simply nerves, because _he's never liked crowds, what a poor little dear._

Jerome's scuffed knees and bloody hands and dark eyes make him _rambunctious_ and _rebellious._ Parents tut and smile sympathetically at Lila as they talk, telling her he'll grow out of it - and she smiles tightly and squeezes his shoulders, telling them that _he'd better._ Jerome's smile only gets sharper at her threats.

The only ones who see through it are the kids like them, with the same sadness in their eyes and the same hatred in their smiles. They say nothing, but they look pointedly at the twins, as if they understand - and Jerome bites insults at them until they run away crying, and then laughs bitterly, grabbing too hard at Jeremiah's side.

* * *

The boys don't go to school. Their uncle Zack, a large man with a cold heart, sits them stiffly in his cold trailer and teaches them himself.

He's barely educated himself, but Jeremiah knows better to correct his hasty spellings or messy equations - and Jerome doesn't care nearly enough about it to worry. He knows how to spell _Jerome_ and _fuck_ and _whore,_ and that's all he seems to care about, scribbling dead cats in the margins of his paper instead of writing lines.

Jeremiah used to help him, scrawling the words in a messier version of his own clean print, but Zack had caught him and it hadn't gone well - Jerome had come back with skinned knees and muddy hands and red eyes, and had snarled at Jeremiah for the rest of the day, never letting him get too close.

"He thinks I'm stupid because of you," he'd sobbed that night, more angry than sad. "and so does everybody else, because you're the good one and I'm not."

Jeremiah flips his pillow to the cool side and sobs too.

* * *

 Jerome is maybe ten when he first performs, and the audience like him enough to demand an encore.

What he did was nothing groundbreaking, a simple mockery disguised as a routine, prancing around the stage in a too-big ringleader garb and shouting introductions in his most ridiculously cheery voice. The audience had cackled cruelly as he quipped at his coworkers' expense - _and now, for a creature so terrifying we need to keep it leashed, and a lion too_ \- and then he'd been dragged backstage by his coattails, uncle Zack fuming.

"You don't get to act like you're one of us," he'd snarled, shoving Jerome down, "you've never gotten to do that, and you never will-"

And then the crowd chanted his name, and ignored the new bruises when he walked back on, quipping smoothly about some unsteady stairs.

* * *

Lila's lovers - _toyboys,_ Jerome called them - were handsome but scary, and never liked the brothers much.

Jerome pressed his ear up against the crack of the door and adopted their harsh words for his growing vocabulary - _slut, whore, bitch, fuck_ \- and Jeremiah was careful to tug him away when it sounded like they were getting close.

One day, he wasn't nearly quick enough, and the door slammed open, Jerome losing his footing and stumbling inside. The toyboy snarled, catching him by his shoulder and hauling him up to eye-level.

"You like listening in, huh, you little fag?" he'd snarled - and Jerome had flinched back, kicking at the man in anger, face contorting sharply.

He ended up getting thrown across the grass outside the trailer. Lila took one look at the dirt smeared down his clothes and the long scrape down the side of his face and scoffed, shoving him towards the bathroom and turning back to the TV.

"Make yourself presentable," she muttered, "no son of mine walks in here looking like _sewer-trash."_

Jerome choked back his laughter, bit back his snark, and slunk into the bathroom, sparing Jeremiah a glance as he passed.


	2. hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerome doesn't remember falling asleep, really, but when he wakes up, he's alone, and the room only has one bed left, and he suddenly notices how spacious it is when nobody else is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope you like this chapter!! it's twice the length of the last one and i think i finally got into canon territory, which is fun.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: child abuse (of course - physical & emotional), mentioned animal abuse/death, ableist slurs/offensive terms (ps*cho, man*ac, etc.). feel free to request any warnings that you feel like i've missed!

As the twins grow older, Jerome stops being quite so rebellious.

He and Jeremiah were forced into their mother's idea of the perfect sons, complete with matching good-boy outfits and perfectly-gelled hair. Jeremiah didn't seem too uncomfortable in it, eager to please, but Jerome was constantly pulling at the hems of his jackets, scoffing and running his hands through his hair til it turned messy again.

"You can't possibly like this, Miah," he complained quietly to his brother when Lila was distracted, "she's making us her dolls. Playing dress-up. We look terrible."

Jeremiah shrugged, squinted down at the floorboards. "It's better than nothing."

A snort, and a sharp elbow in the ribs. Jerome was smiling - that stupid, childish, devilish way he smiled when he was genuinely amused. "I'd rather have nothing," he laughed, "walk around ass-naked, yeah?"

Jeremiah's face flushed red, his mouth twitching into a small smile. "You do seem like the nudist type, Rome."

His twin blinked, smile widening. "Fuck yeah I do. What's not to love about living like you have nothing?" A pause. "Besides, yanno, _having nothing."_

"I thought you'd rather have nothing?"

"Yeah, well, it's summer. It's hot outside. I was thinking _short-term,_ broski."

* * *

To his credit, Jerome genuinely seemed to try and fit Lila's perfect-sons fantasy. He stopped being so disruptive and only swore when he was with Jeremiah. He learnt to make himself smaller, to act timid rather than cocky - and soon enough, Lila was parading him around as her second Golden Boy.

But people don't change so easily.

Jeremiah knew, of course, that Jerome was the same underneath. He'd seen him grabbing at strays when the circus travelled to big cities, or cutting up old dolls with scissors, or scribbling curse words in his little notebook. He snuck out in the night to listen to the music through the walls of clubs, and lifted whatever stores sold that was small enough to pocket. He was still Jerome Valeska, a troubled kid through and through - but he was getting better at hiding it, now.

At least, he thought he was, until Jeremiah had jokingly dared him to steal something from inside the circus - and he'd come back with his hand all blistered and red, eyes glassy with tears, face scrunched in anger and pain.

Jeremiah reached out to hug him, when he came back to the trailer, but caught the glare in Jerome's eyes and backed off. "I never thought you'd really _do it."_

His brother snorted, shifting across the room slowly, as if he couldn't bare to move any faster. "Yeah, I _bet_ you didn't. You _always_ think badly of me."

_(Jerome was the dumb kid with the decapitated barbie dolls who smelled a bit like cat blood. Jeremiah was the scholarly Golden Boy with kind eyes and a smart tongue. It was only natural, really, for Jeremiah to think less of him.)_

"Rome." Jeremiah followed him patiently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to be hurt."

"Yeah, well," He smiled bitterly, "nobody ever does, do they? That's what they tell everyone else. That's what they tell me."

Jeremiah shifted from one foot to the other. Jerome's eyes lifted up to watch him, cold and still, as if the emotion had been sucked out of them - and yet tears still rolled down his face, as if he didn't even need to be sad to cry anymore.

Then suddenly, they filled with sadness, so deep and overwhelming that Jeremiah felt as if he would cry just by looking into them - sadness and disappointment, and the flare of anger that had become permanent in Jerome, as if it were part of his personality rather than a fleeting emotion.

"That's what they tell you, too," he spoke softly, "to make you act as if they don't hurt you."

Jeremiah hesitated.

Jerome tore his eyes away, wiped at his face with his non-burnt hand, and turned his back on his brother. "I _can't wait_ for the day you stop pretending you're any better."

* * *

Jeremiah still pretended. It was all he knew how to do.

* * *

For all Jerome spoke about entitlement, he'd grown to be rather self-centered over the years; the painful "lessons" his family gave him about manners and behaving and being quiet had only taught him how much his life sucked, and how he seemed to be the only one suffering.

It'd taken him years to finally notice how they treated Jeremiah, as he was too busy licking his wounds and being spiteful to give the quieter twin much thought - really, on the surface, Jeremiah was just perfect.

He was quiet but well-spoken, smart but not pretentious, well-dressed and neat without looking too stuffy or uptight. He was pretty in the face, with a soft, calm voice. He never shuffled or limped, and walked with his head up, smiling softly. He was perfect.

And yet it was all fake.

People like Jeremiah are taught to look for validation and adoration wherever they turn, as the weight of their worth lies so dependent on other people's thoughts - and thus Jeremiah barely managed to have a personality outside of his perfect persona, too muffled and small underneath his mask to really make a mark on the world.

For every punch they gave Jerome, Jeremiah got a biting insult; for every time Jerome was "too much", Jeremiah was "not trying hard enough"; for every time Jerome was violent and rebellious, Jeremiah was "overly-imaginative", seeing pressures that "weren't real"; every time Jerome was forced to be quiet, Jeremiah was forced to be _Little Mister Perfect,_ all stiff smiles and small words.

It hit Jerome like a punch to the gut. It never hit Jeremiah at all.

* * *

Uncle Zack used the twins like bargaining chips.

If Jerome sat down and listened and actually did his work, Jeremiah wouldn't be shouted at quite as loudly if he spoke. If Jeremiah only did his own work and didn't speak over Zack when he got something wrong, then Jerome didn't get any more reasons to go home crying.

It worked better than it should have.

* * *

As Jeremiah became quieter and quieter, desparate to fit their mother's ideals, Jerome became more and more violent.

He'd come home covered in cat blood and crying. He'd come home covered in bruises and smiling. He'd sometimes not come home at all, and Jeremiah would be tired the next day from sitting on the trailer steps in the cold and waiting for him until sunrise.

Jerome became less of a friend and more of an acquaintance, as time went on. He couldn't look at Jeremiah without getting that strange sad-angry look in his eyes and turning away. He couldn't stay at home without picking fights with strangers or making a scene for the sake of it. He couldn't be Jerome without being something terrible.

_(He came home crying one night, buried his face in his pillow and screamed until his throat was sore. Jeremiah sat and watched him with wide, tearful eyes - and kept watching as the sun rose and Jerome clambered to his feet, still dressed from the day before, and moved shakily towards the door. In the doorway, he paused, blinked blearily, and turned to face his brother, silhouetted by the light of the outside._

_"Go to sleep, Miah," he'd rasped calmly, voice ruined from the screaming. Jeremiah stopped staying awake for him after that.)_

* * *

Jerome found an old lighter that still worked. He spent all night flicking it off and on, staring longingly at the flame.

"Knock it off," Jeremiah had mumbled, too drowsy to think anything of it, "before she thinks you're a _psycho_ and _throws you out."_

The lighter flickered again. His brother grinned wolfishly, staring tiredly at the flame, a glint of joy in his eyes. "Oh, what a _pity_ that'd be," he muttered in return - and Jeremiah was too tired to think about it enough.

* * *

He woke up one morning to nothing but heat and light.

Jerome was cackling distantly. He forced his eyes open and gasped, choking and spluttering on the smoke, flailing and kicking off his duvet.

It was on fire, and Jerome was still clicking that lighter.

Framed by nothing but fire and smoke, hair spiked and dishevelled by sleep, eyes wide and manic, Jerome looked like a super-villain. He clicked the lighter rhythmically, as if it were an instrument, and spared nothing but a smile for his terrified twin.

"Calm down, Miah," he smiled, "it's just a little _crispy."_

So Jeremiah, like any normal child, did the first thing to come to mind.

He screamed.

* * *

Jerome doesn't remember falling asleep, really, but when he wakes up, he's alone, and the room only has one bed left, and he suddenly notices how spacious it is when nobody else is there.

* * *

He asks for Jeremiah. Lila snarls and slaps him, calls him cruel and demonic.

"Burning your toys like a _fucking maniac_ is one thing," she growls, "but _burning your brother alive_ is another!"

He has a feeling he's made a terrible mistake.

* * *

He crosses out Jeremiah's name on their bedroom sign and decides it's better this way anyway. Now he doesn't look so self-centered when he says he's in this alone.

_(And if Jeremiah comes home, well, he can make a new sign. It's not like he has anything better to do.)_

* * *

Regular visitors to the circus ask where _"the charming young boy with the quiet voice"_ went. Lila squeezes Jerome's shoulder far too hard and tells them he's gone to a big fancy school near New York, in a big city Jerome's never heard of, where he can _"live up to his potential"._

Jerome hopes he's really dead.

_(Jerome also hopes - quietly, when he's alone in their big, cold room - that she's telling the truth.)_

* * *

Days turn into months, which turn into years.

They have new acts in the circus - new animal tamers, new sword swallowers, the list goes on - but the Valeska family stays there, as if they belong.

The new acts don't know about Jeremiah; not even the new ringleader, who smiles kindly and sadly at Jerome and treats him as if he's not a murderer. They think he was an only child, to a cold single mother and a father who died before he even knew him.

_(He still thinks that's a lie, but Jeremiah always clung to how she told them they looked just like him. Jerome has started to like the idea of someone who looks just like him but isn't.)_

He lets them believe it. It's not as if Jeremiah's ever coming home, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope it doesn't annoy you too much that it switches from past to present tense after The Fire Incident - it flowed more naturally that way imo.
> 
> feel free to talk to me on tumblr abt this @jack-napiers!


	3. among the sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lila puts a new coat of slightly-off-colour paint over where his name used to be on Jerome's bedroom door, and his name is treated like the most severe of curses, only ever whispered behind closed doors, where Lila can't hear them. She hates people talking about Jeremiah; she hates it even more when it's Jerome, and he learns quickly not to mention his lost brother unless he wants really badly to be hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was kinda written with a month or so between the first and second half, so sorry if any of it feels a little disjointed!  
> we're nearly up to 1x16, though, so there's not much longer to wait before we get to the good stuff.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: child abuse (physical), implied alcoholism, mentioned sex (not graphic or elaborated on), ableist language (ps*cho)

The new ringleader is big and warm, and introduces himself as Henry, with a smile.

He doesn't know that Jerome lives in the circus, at first, because Jerome blends so neatly into this particular crowd of children that he looks like a local. His knees are red and raw under his shorts and his hair's a mess from the wind; he's got a red nose and redder eyes and looks like any other snuffly tween in the quaint little town they're performing in. Henry walks over and ruffles his hair, asks him "what's wrong, champ?" - and is taken aback when Lila snakes her arm around his shoulder and squeezes too tight, smiling thinly.

"You must be the new ringleader," she greets, voice saccharine. "I'm Lila Valeska, the snake-charmer - and this is my son, Jerome."

Henry blinks at her, straightening up from where he'd knelt before Jerome. "It's a pleasure," he smiles. His eyes are smudged with white paint, making his eyeliner pop against his dark skin, and he has one of those beards that means he's either evil or a wizard.

Wizardry aside, he seems friendly enough, and Jerome plays along with Lila's act just to seem pleasant.

* * *

Ever since the incident with Jeremiah, Lila has been lonelier than ever.

But in true Lila Valeska fashion, she doesn't respond to this loneliness by spending time with her son or looking for a partner - she fills the hole in her heart with playmates and toyboys, like old times.

Jerome doesn't need to sit by the door anymore, because Lila no longer makes any attempt to get him out of the trailer in time. They're always loud enough that he can hear them from his bedroom, anyway.

His notebook thanks them for its new additions.

* * *

The Lloyds and Graysons are, in the nicest way possible, fucking annoying - if you ask Jerome, that is.

They flock around Lila as if she's a godsend, an angel sent to earth. They call her beautiful and slip her their spare change and sneak out of her trailer at dawn - and they always look at Jerome as if he doesn't know, as if he somehow develops deafness every time their sexcapades occur. They smile sweetly at him and treat him like a child, like they aren't indirectly ruining his life, driving his family even further apart.

* * *

He learns to put his pillow over his head and stay quiet. Lila is a lot harsher when she's drunk and high off sex, and doesn't hesitate to hit him if he sees too much.

* * *

Henry pulls him aside one day - approximately two years after he joined the circus - to ask Jerome if he's okay.

"I know Lila isn't the sweetest woman, and her nightly activities haven't gone unnoticed to me," he speaks softly, hand on Jerome's shoulder, "and so I want to assure that you know I'm here, if you ever need to get away."

Jerome nods, smiles as sweetly as he can, and says he'll consider it.

_(He doesn't really consider it. Lila would be even lonelier without her favourite mistake.)_

* * *

The old fortune teller on the other side of the trailer-park hasn't spoken to him since the incident.

Paul Cicero was harsh, but not nearly as harsh as Lila or Uncle Zack, so the brothers had naturally flocked towards him - he welcomed them into his trailer when they got sick of wandering, read their fortunes for half the price, let them tell him their bullshit stories and complain about their bullshit lives.

And unlike the rest of the world, Cicero seemed to favour Jerome over his brother - maybe it was because Jeremiah was so quiet, and the old man couldn't see his sweet smiles, but he'd always had a soft spot for the rowdier Valeska. He was content to let Jeremiah wander in his trailer and draw mazes on the back of old receipts, but there wasn't much he could really do with said mazes without the ability to see them, so he tended to stick closer to Jerome.

And yet, like everybody else, he seems colder to him now.

It's only speculation and intuition at first, the sinking feeling, the heaviness in his gut as he watches Cicero approach. He's sat on the very edge of the trailer steps, eyes red with tears, rubbing at a bruise on his shoulder through his shirt; he'd been too loud in the next room, punished and thrown out as if he were a broken doll.

Cicero nearly walks past him, but he finds himself choking out an audible sob, and the blind man pauses in front of him. He turns slowly towards him and - in that creepy, supernatural way that he always does - somehow stares directly at the young boy, eyes glassy and dead.

Jerome shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Why are you crying, Jerome?" Cicero asks. His voice is soft but rough, like a harsh breeze - the familiarity of it only makes his gut sink faster.

"It's my birthday," he weeps - he turns fifteen that day - "and mom and the snake guy are beating me."

Cicero's stony face softens a fraction, and he lowers to his knees, hand never leaving his stick. With a gentle fondness that's foreign to the young boy, he holds his hand, squeezing it firmly in some vague attempt of comfort. His face betrays no exact emotion, a vague blend of sorrow and forgiveness - before all of a sudden, his features harden with the familiar look of disappointment and anger that seem to manifest in Jeremiah's absense.

"The world doesn't care about you or anyone else, Jerome," he states plainly. Jerome no longer finds the rasp of his voice comforting. "Better to realise that now."

With one swift movement, Cicero pulls back, raises steadily to his feet, and walks away - leaving the boy to cry in the wind.

* * *

Henry doesn't know about Jeremiah. None of the new acts do.

Lila puts a new coat of slightly-off-colour paint over where his name used to be on Jerome's bedroom door, and his name is treated like the most severe of curses, only ever whispered behind closed doors, where Lila can't hear them. She hates people talking about Jeremiah; she hates it even more when it's Jerome, and he learns quickly not to mention his lost brother unless he wants really badly to be hurt.

He doesn't mean to tell Henry, not really - the ringleader had caught him with blood on his hands and, worried, dragged him into his trailer to wash up before he had to return to Lila. He grimaces at the raw redness of the young boy's knees and the dark bruises on his collarbone, and sits him on the edge of the bath whilst he washes his wounds.

And Jerome, too tired to think much of it, remarks quietly that "Miah would love you, yanno" - and then turns rigid, eyes wide.

Henry startles at the sudden tensing and blinks at the young boy in confusion. Carefully rinsing the bloodied rag in his hands and leaning slightly on the bath's side, he asks him, quietly, "Who's Miah, Jerome?"

"Nobody." His answer comes far too quickly to be believable. The ringleader's eyes narrow in concern, and Jerome swallows deeply, fingers tapping and fidgeting at his sides. "Nobody at all, sir. Don't worry."

Pressing the wet cloth against his wound again, Henry seems to pause to consider this; and, after a moment or two of thought, sighs. "Alright, young Valeska. Whatever you say."

* * *

Cicero's trailer is significantly less homely, now that the old man had begun keeping his distance from the boy, so he sits curled in the furthest corner and tries his best to read one of the books as the fortune-teller makes his coffee. He isn't exactly fluent in braille - that was more Jeremiah's area of expertise - but he knows enough from his brother's small tidbits of information to work his way through a few pages, slowly and painfully, letter by letter.

Paul Cicero sits at the dining table, mug in hand, and Jerome tears his eyes from the dull intricacies of the braille bumps, staring up at the man. He gets a distant stare back - as expected, Cicero makes no move indicating that he can even vaguely see him, and yet still manages to stare directly into Jerome's soul, cutting at his heart like daggers. The urge to fill the uncomfortable silence becomes far too much for Jerome, and he speaks without thinking.

"Did he get a funeral?"

He watches as the man pauses, mug pulled up to his lips - and then slowly lowers it back to the table, eyes still not wavering from Jerome's face. There's a moment of silence - then two, then three - before Cicero clears his throat and straightens. "Who, Jerome?"

Jerome swallows down the thickness in his throat and tries his best to keep his voice steady as he answers. "Jeremiah." Another uncomfortable pause. "Did he get a funeral?"

The blind man's face shifts into something uncomfortable and unreadable, and his fingers tighten around the mug in his hands. He breathes deeply and harshly - makes Jerome flinch a little - and then sighs, lifting the mug once more.

"No, Jerome, he didn't." He takes a sip of his coffee, arms shaking minutely. "He didn't get a funeral."

Jerome doesn't know if he's happy or sad about that. He's not even sure if he feels anything at all about it. "Oh," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper - and turns to look back down at the stark white braille pages, just so he doesn't have to make eye contact anymore.

* * *

He doesn't mourn Jeremiah anymore. Nobody else seems to, so neither does he.

By the time he's sixteen, he stops crying over him, stops feeling bad when he sees the empty side of their room or the slightly-off paint on the bedroom door. He doesn't really feel much at all about him, really, but that's besides the point.

* * *

Uncle Zack gives him a black eye for it one day, when he forgets to think again and lets out a quiet comment about his history of copying from his twin. He holds the side of his face in one hand, eyes wide in shock, bent uncomfortably over the unsteady table that functioned as his school desk. His uncle snarls at him, trembling in anger.

"You're a fucking _psycho._ " he growls, turning on his heel and stomping towards the door. "Lila should've got rid of you when she had the chance. Normal kids don't reminisce about people they try n' kill."

He slams the door behind him. Jerome sits silently in the classroom for a minute - then breathes, wipes meaninglessly at his stinging eye, and raises to his feet, gathering what few possessions he brought with him and slipping out.


End file.
